


The Colour Of My Blood

by th_esaurus



Category: Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest Kink, M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 18:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: All of my shame was his burden to fend with.





	The Colour Of My Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brittlelimbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/gifts).



> please heed the tags.

He was wiping our commingled mess from my stomach with a damp t-shirt, when I told him, “I wish we had been brothers.”

He looked at me, bemused. I loved that look on him: it softened his somewhat cold features, shocked him out of distant complacency. I loved to surprise him. “Why?”

“So that I would have always known you,” I said, though this was not the whole truth of it.

“Well, yes,” he said, but gestured to the spoilt tee. “The context would have been pretty different.”

“Perhaps,” I said boldly.

“‘Perhaps’,” he echoed, then pondered my reply a while. “Sick and twisted,” he murmured. Another echo from a far earlier conversation. In fact it had only been last week that I spilt myself into the heart of a peach and watched him consume it. Had we come so far, or barely moved at all?

“Don’t you adore it, though?” This was brave; he might have denied it and burned me back into secrecy. I had become so open with him. All of my shame was his burden to fend with.

“You scare me,” he said, but he was smiling. He leant over to kiss me. “If we had been brothers,” he said, playing along, “You might have been called Oliver and I Elio.”

I groaned into his mouth. He always knew just how to spark my interest, rile me up. I wanted him to fuck me again that instant, but it was far too soon. So we lay side by side on top of the bed-sheets, lazily holding hands and recuperating, and I daydreamed vividly about sharing his DNA.

*

I would not have recognised my feelings at first. A boyish crush can so easily be mistaken for hero worship. 

I seemed to be the only only-child growing up in B., but I had seen large, youthful families, boys playfighting intimately, scabbed arms slung around one another after the tussle, vibrant kisses on foreheads and cheeks. I desperately wanted that easy, unhidden affection: Oliver never needing an excuse to touch me, to kiss me, to curl around me in bed.

To have crawled to him after a childhood nightmare, and be wrapped up in his willing arms! What dreadful bliss! I would have endured terrors every night if it meant I could sleep between his legs, my nose and mouth buried into his chest. Even in summer when the heat was unbearable, he would never have begrudged my added warmth in his bed. He would have whispered my name to me until it sounded like nonsense, until my very identity was indecipherable, and I could sleep calmly again, made into nothing by his voice and able to dream of nothing else.

I wanted that agonising realisation that he had reached the cusp of manhood and was pulling away from me. I wanted the fight to claw him back, to reclaim that closeness we had once shared that made our mother smile and our father proud; their sweet sons. I wanted the confusion of his constant rebuttal, the loneliness of missing him when he went out for wine and dancing with friends, while I, perhaps twelve or thirteen, cried into his pillow and could not comprehend why. I wanted all this to make our reconciliation all the more indulgent. As though we were lovers parted by war; not brothers made distant by simple puberty.

When would he have first touched me, intimately? Perhaps around that time. To soothe me through the frustration of a dream - of him, of course. I would have clambered into his bed, hard and crying, whispering, “Help me, Oliver,” and he would coo, “It’s okay, little brother, it’s nothing, it’s nothing, let me--”

He would have taken me into his mouth, and I know I would have wailed with shame and pleasure. Far too much, too used to only my own hand. He would have swallowed my useless come; so as not to make a mess, he’d tell me after.

Would he have been distant, stony-faced for a week after? Until I was able to soften him back into fondness? Certainly, I was sure of it. He was always the guilty one. Being more brazen, I would have spent the time masturbating in his bed. 

And when, oh to think of when, might we have fucked for the first time? Years later. Perhaps the ages we were now. Might he have gone to university in America all the same? Come back with a different sort of tan, not quite the same as gifted by the Italian sun: bleached hair, a yankee tang to his accent, a bluster that was distinctly un-European? My father - our father - had always had an open ear to sordid tales, as long as they were constructive: he would have listened to Oliver’s uncharacteristic boasts over dinner, of poker and parties and girls. Meanwhile I would have wolfed down my supper, to leave the conversation sooner. I would have hated him. My brother, my blood. How I would have hated him, and all the people who had ever touched his mouth.

He would be soft with me, out of guilt. “Hey,” he’d say, rubbing my back while I sobbed upon his bedsheets. “You’re still my best brother. Nothing can change that.”

“You’re changing it,” I’d accuse him.

I’d want him to do everything with me that he had done with his American girls. 

“We can’t,” he’d say.

“There’s nothing to stop us.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“We are brothers,” I’d tell him, still red-faced, teary-eyed. If he loved me he would kiss me, even ugly with tears like this. “It makes no difference. Your blood is my blood, your come is my come, your soul is my soul. Put your cock inside of me and make us one person.”

Of course I would never state it outright like that. But perhaps he would see what I was begging of him in my gaze.

“I’ll think about it,” he’d say, and leave me to my agony. 

I wonder if he might be unable to defile me as I wished, and could only bear it if I fucked him. My unpractised cock thrusting nervously into him as I wept onto his collarbone and called him his name, my name, my brother. 

He’d admit to me, only after, for how long he had wanted to do this. Years and years, even since I was far too young to comprehend it; and he hated himself for it. “I was meant to protect you,” he’d say.

“You always have,” I’d murmur back, kissing him. 

He would tell me of how he praised me to his casual girlfriends, admit that he had a picture of me in his dorm room, which he would turn to face the wall when he brought girls back to fuck. My come inside him would loosen his tongue, and make him reveal his decade of secrets: that he had spent his life loving and loathing me in fits and starts, hoping to stave off his affection. “I used to call you  _ topino _ and bring you daisies.”

“I remember.”

“I kissed you on the mouth.”

It was a startling recollection. “I remember.”

“Dad told me, when I was thirteen, that perhaps the cheek or temple would be better.”

I would have hated our father, in that instant.

“So you stopped?”

“So I stopped.”

“Why?” I would ask, despite his explanation.

“You know why.”

“Please fuck me, Oliver.”

“I  _ can’t _ .”

“Why?” I’d ask again, and his answer would be the same weary: “You know why.”

I would have been as insatiable in this dream life as I was now. I would have begged him until he relented, even though we had done it once already, him all the while loathing himself and me loving him, loving us, my kisses a balm over his self-inflicted wounds. I would never let him spill his blood in penance, for it was my blood too. Our blood. 

My brother, Oliver.

*

Of course, the thought of it all had rendered me fully hard.

“You’ve made yourself horny,” he murmured, looking down. “What have you been dreaming of?”

“You know what.”

“I’m sure I can guess.”

“Fuck me before it goes,” I begged.

He almost laughed. “Fine,” he said, “but I won’t call you ‘brother’.”

“I’ll imagine it.”

He rolled his eyes, clambering on top of me and pushing my legs up around his waist. “Like I could stop you.”

How I adored him. His exasperation with my overactive mind. His concession to my impurity. 

When he pushed inside of me, I pretended we had been doing it all our lives; and it was everything I wanted. Every single thing.


End file.
